


echoes

by layton_kyouju



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Missing Scene, Platonic Relationships, expansion of the witcher 1 prologue, love those good wolf school boys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-23
Updated: 2018-09-23
Packaged: 2019-07-16 05:42:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16079621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/layton_kyouju/pseuds/layton_kyouju
Summary: Water poured, thunder rumbled. Eskel did not move from his post. It could have been minutes or hours that he crouched, soaked, but he had no way of knowing. He could only stare at his brother’s face, hoping with every aching bone that the next time he blinked wouldn’t end it all.





	echoes

He was supposed to be dead.

Those had been the rumors, at least. Five years ago, the White Wolf was murdered, skewered during a fit of racist fury that swept through Rivia’s streets in a bloody torrent of crimson. Then he was gone. Along with two of the most important people in his life, vanishing into thin air. The stories varied beyond that point, but there were no bodies to remain as physical proof of what had occurred.

Unlike many, the witchers had first-hand witnesses of the gruesome event. Even those accounts grew muddled with magical hailstorms, unicorns, and ghosts, however. Triss was detached afterward, too numb to say much of anything. That bard Geralt traveled with was prone for extravagance and romanticism, but not about this. He wouldn’t lie about this.

Nothing could be done. Geralt of Rivia was dead.

The witchers mourned the loss in their own ways. Vesemir distracted himself with productive tasks, such as going down the unending list of Kaer Morhen’s repairs. Lambert lashed out, a seething rage bubbling up to stifle and hide away the sorrow trying to drown him. Eskel grieved in silence, burdened with a weight on his tired body that threatened to bury him alive.

But life went on as it does.

The world still held monsters and people willing to pay for their eradication. No amount of despondency would make that go away. With nothing else to cling to, Eskel and Lambert returned to the Path. Vesemir took on a new, perhaps his last, student, and he was determined to do so without the more brutal aspects of shaping a witcher. Just as they had with a young girl with ashen hair all those years ago.

Time passed. Beasts were slain, contracts fulfilled. Stares and hushed words, subtle and not-so-subtle prejudices following their footsteps. Existence had reached as normal as it ever would.

On the eve of the fifth year, they gathered at Kaer Morhen for the oncoming winter, as was tradition. A sharp scent hung in the wind early in the fall, a signal of a long, brutal season. Like birds flying south to wait out the chill, the remaining wolves returned to their den.

Vesemir and new recruit Leo greeted their kin at the keep’s gate with hearty embraces and idle chatter about the past months. They ate, drank - some more than others - and prepared themselves for what was to come.

Two weeks went by since their reunion. Lambert, already getting antsy about the impending storms and stillness, suggested a hunt. Best to stock up before the frosts began. A lack of prey would soon follow, leaving them starving until the thaw. Relieved at the chance to stretch his muscles, Eskel agreed to join him. The pair gathered their weaponry and armored up, readying for their mission.

It would be yet another without their brother.

The witchers moved through the thick, wild undergrowth, bracken tugging at their trousers and boots. Sun filtered down through the pines of the Blue Mountains, the needles softening footsteps into whispers and a heady scent of sap filling their noses. They picked their way north toward the lake, not keen to battle for hunting territory with the bears that lingered south of the fortress.

Memories wafted through Eskel’s mind as they walked; memories of spirited boys running through the trees, sometimes with joy in their hearts, sometimes with fear in their bellies. Countless youthful feet had tread this same beaten path over more cruel years than Eskel could fathom. Only four remained who still bore that trail in their souls.

After a half hour of trekking into the dense brush, a sudden brisk wind careened through the valley, shaking the towering trees and whistling around them. Swirls of angry clouds peaked over the mountains, darkening the once bright blue sky. Birdsong fell silent.

The sky tore open with a rolling crack, and cold rain poured down.

Pattering swelled throughout the woods in an building roar. Every leaf shuddered as earthbound droplets surged through the valley like an upturned pail, painting the land in dull grays.

Lambert hunched against the rain like a miserable cat. A sour grimace pulled at his lips. “Shit,” he spat.

Eskel let out a scoff in his throat. “No big deal,” he said as he pulled up the collar of his leather jacket and unhooked the crossbow on his back. “Let’s just find something to bring back.”

“Fine,” the other man grumbled while he did the same.

More trudging through the drenched woods proved they were not the only ones with a desire for someplace warm and dry. Small creatures fled through the underbrush to their nests and unsettled fallen leaves in their wake. The witchers came upon tracks indented in the mud, shining and fresh, water pooling in the twin tear-shaped scoops.

One track grew into a series of four separate trails moving through the woods. They followed the meandering hoof prints, their senses alert for the creators.

It only took them a few minutes to catch up. Up ahead they spotted flicking tails and tall, pivoting ears pausing in a dense patch of trees for protection. One antlered buck, two lean does, and a single speckled fawn.

The witchers looked to each other and nodded. Lambert retreated back into the trees, his boots silent against the leaf litter underfoot. He would round the small cluster, then take position opposite of Eskel. Then it was only a matter of proper aim and timing.

Preparing himself, Eskel stooped down on one knee and took a crossbow bolt from a satchel on his belt. The rain made the device slippery and difficult to grip, but he managed to get the bolt and wire readied without a sound. The buck raised his head and twitched his ears. Nostrils flared.

A flash of white in the foliage jarred Eskel from his focus.

Just a flicker against the gray and green, perhaps a trick of the light, but his medallion jerked against his sternum.

He ran. Pure instinct took over before he could fight against its pull. The world whipped past in a dull, wet smear blotting at the edges as incessant drops slapped his face and welled in his eyes. Everything narrowed on the spark dancing through the trees.

Panicked heart, shallow breaths. Stumbling, fumbling, twigs snap under scattered feet. A choking odor of blood, fire, and steel. Lightening darted across the sky and fractured the clouds like shattering glass.

Lambert’s bewildered voice reached Eskel’s ears, but he was unable to process his fading words.

He ran. A name on his tongue he never imagined saying again. It may have rang out, but the rain and thunder were all he knew.

The white glow, like a will-o-the-wisp guiding him to his destruction, dropped out of sight behind a clump of bracken. Fear gripped his chest. _No, no, no._

Eskel burst into the clearing and froze at its edge. The universe fell silent.

A body lay sprawled across the slick forest floor. Unmoving. No weapons, no armor, mud and rain seeping into hair and minimal clothes. Scuffed boots, breeches tattered and too large.

Ragged breaths heaved from Eskel’s lungs. His feet were stuck in place as if the trees had lashed their roots around his ankles. Water trickling through his drenched hair and down his neck yanked him back to reality.

Mud squelched as he took slow steps toward the scar-riddled body. He knelt down, brushed aside the mess of stained white. His heart dropped into his stomach.

Rapid soggy footsteps came up and halted at Eskel’s side. A hitch of breath.

“What. The. _Fuck."_

Eskel said nothing. He reached a hand where the man’s jaw met his neck. His fingers hesitated before meeting the cold, wet flesh.

_Thump._

Ice poured through Eskel’s veins.

“Get a horse and cart.” The words were tight in his throat. Lips wet, dripping. Eyes couldn’t part from the muddied swath of white. “ _Now."_

Lambert’s feet shifted. He bolted off and disappeared into the sheets rain and forest.

Eskel hunched over the man’s torso, forming himself into a shield. Rhythmic tapping hissed against his jacket. Couldn’t risk moving to shelter.

Thin pupils trailed over angular features, scarred skin. A few had not been among the web of aging marks the last time they met. Unkempt scruff lined his jaw, stray droplets clinging to sharp hair. No fresh wounds as far as Eskel could tell besides shallow scrapes on his exposed torso from the underbrush.

“You’re gonna be okay, Geralt,” he breathed in a whisper lost to the rain.

Water poured, thunder rumbled. Eskel did not move from his post. It could have been minutes or hours that he crouched, soaked, but he had no way of knowing. He could only stare at his brother’s face, hoping with every aching bone that the next time he blinked wouldn’t end it all. Listening for the weak beating in Geralt’s chest.

Rustling broke the monotony of the storm. A different gait, steadier with confidence and wisdom, stepped from the trees along with the thumping of an old cart and thick hooves.

Eskel raised his head to the sounds and slicked back his wet bangs to the top of his head. Two figures emerged from the gloom of fog and entered the clearing. Relief kicked a breath from Eskel’s lungs.

Papa Vesemir to the rescue, as always.

The older witcher guided his horse and subsequent cart to a stop. Eskel struggled to his feet, his joints stiff. Vesemir gave him a fond clap on the shoulder before he looked down at the source of their concern. He did his own assessment of the unconscious man slumped in the mud, checking for blood or anything else to signify a severe injury. His face was out of view, but the the occasional twitch of his fingers proved he was having just as difficult a time processing this.

“Let’s get him back,” was all Vesemir said as he stood.

With that, Vesemir took hold of arms and shoulders while Eskel supported legs. They lifted Geralt from the earth, and Eskel was so startled by a lack of weight that he almost lost his balance. He recovered, if only physically, allowing them to set the limp man on the back of the cart.

The chestnut mare was not unlike her master: in the later years of life, but still strong and hearty. Even in the storm she remained steady, patient as they prepared for the trek back.

The going was rough. Each time the cart wheels caught over a stone and slammed back into the thick sludge Eskel clenched his jaw. No words passed between him and his mentor, but he did not mind. He would not know where to begin.

Soon the rain slowed into a humid drizzle. The shift made Eskel realize just how wet and cold he was. His hair was flat to his head, water dribbling down his skin, and his armor felt pounds heavier on his tired muscles.

“Where am I?”

A faint scrape of a voice. Eskel’s gaze snapped to the man in the cart, a barrage of thoughts and emotions rushing through his head so fast he couldn’t decipher them. Cloudy gold greeted him, pupils fluctuating between wide and narrow slits, unable to focus.

“Everything’s all right,” Eskel replied, perhaps too quick. He reeled himself back, took a deep breath to calm his escalating heart. “I’ve no idea where you’ve been. The important thing is that you’re alive and among friends.” A halfhearted smirk reached his lips. “Though you look like you just left your grave.”

Bleary eyes searched, blinking slower and slower. “I remember nothing.”

Eskel raised a hand to mollify the other witcher. Talking was wasting precious little energy. “We’ll speak soon enough. We’re nearing Kaer Morhen.”

Warm light cut through the thick clouds, pouring down with the light shower and scattered lightening. Distant fog thinned to reveal the crumbling spires and walls of their stronghold, which gleamed white in the soft glow. The woods grew peaceful as the storm faded beyond the mountain peaks, birds taking up their harmonies through the muggy air and animals venturing back into the sunlight.

The distress within the witchers’ minds, however, was far from over.

At last, the downed drawbridge of the keep came into view. Geralt had wavered in a half conscious state for a few minutes of the journey before slipping back into a comatose state. Eskel was eager to get him out of the elements as soon as possible.

When they reached the entrance, Lambert came into view at the gaping threshold. He had shed his drenched armor, now wearing dry breeches and a gray tunic. Water glistened on his shorn crop of hair. His expression was flat, guarded, but anxiety danced on his features in faint glimmers. Eskel gave him a nod of reassurance as they passed, which seemed to alleviate his visible fear a small degree.

The cart’s wheels ground over the scattered rubble and dirt of the courtyard. Vesemir looked up to a figure watching from atop the ramparts. “Leo, get Triss,” he called. The figure ran across the wall and vanished in the doorway of the nearest tower.

They brought the horse and cart to a toddling stop at the base of the main entrance. Step by step, Eskel and Vesemir carried Geralt up the front stairs, slow to keep him steady as possible. As they reached the top, the old wooden doors wheezed open, revealing Leo in the shadow of its wake. He held it for the others to slip inside, and the door fell shut with a resonating thud.

Hurried footsteps murmured through the keep. Heavy scent of musty wood, ancient structure. Rain continued to tap on the stones with the rhythmic drips of endless leaks.

Lambert threw together a cot beside the crackling hearth while Leo dashed upstairs to fetch the extra furs that didn’t reek of mildew.

Quaking began to wrack through Geralt’s unconscious body. Eskel helped to support his dead weight as Vesemir shucked off Geralt’s drenched breeches and boots. _No, not dead,_ Eskel reminded himself as he felt the man’s weak, feathery pulse beneath his fingertips.

With the cot ready, after a stream of Lambert cursing it, the witchers laid Geralt upon the canvas. Leo returned with the furs, and together they bundled them around Geralt’s form.

They stood around the cot, staring at the occupant who might as well be a specter.

“I don’t understand,” Vesemir muttered into his cupped palm. He shook his head, long gray hair shining silver in the low light.

“Always a fuckin’ showoff,” Lambert snorted from where he leaned against the wall by the fire. “Really outdid himself this time. What could top resurrecting from the dead?” He pushed off the stone and walked toward the cot, a weak glower on his face.

Eskel didn’t miss the tenderness Lambert held in his eyes and hands as he adjusted the roll beneath Geralt’s head to better support his marred neck.

Young Leo looked in awe at the unconscious witcher, starstruck. He had brought up his fascination with the ballads of the White Wolf before, albeit brief comments in passing. It didn’t take him long to notice the reaction that name elicited in his fellow witchers.

Eskel couldn’t comprehend the swarm festering inside his chest. Everything positive was dragged down by fear, worry, confusion, a thick mire. It was like a tangled ball of thread, a thousand ends leading into a mass wound and wound upon itself without any hope of ever being unravelled. A light tug would result in the knot tightening, closing it all on itself.

Vesemir rested a hand on Eskel’s shoulder. Eskel snapped out of himself to find a reserved softness in his teacher’s eyes. “You should get some rest yourself. You were out there for quite a while.” A flare of resistance bloomed in his stomach, and it must have shone through. Vesemir quirked a brow without a word, and Eskel knew this was not a fight he would win. Relenting, he nodded and moved to the opposite side of the hall, where his few belongings sat by his own cot.

Eskel shivered as the cool air met his bare, wet skin. In just his underclothes, he set his armor on the floor to dry before bundling himself in blankets and furs, then curled up on the bed. He hadn’t expected to fall asleep with the constant worries and questions spiraling through his head, but in a matter of minutes the dark claimed him.

•••••••••••••••

Eskel jolted awake, a cacophony of yelling piercing his ears. He scrambled from his cot, bare feet slapping the cold foundation across the keep. He halted at a crumbled wall just before the main core of the hall.

The white-haired witcher was awake, but what Eskel saw was not the Geralt he knew.

Golden eyes flickering back and forth between the three men around him, glowing with a wild light. Eyes of a cornered beast. Sweat clung to his flesh, the fire making it glisten over a flush of fever. His hand clutched a splintering board, an impromptu weapon. The cot he had been sleeping on was kicked over before him, the furs spilling across the floor.

Vesemir, Lambert, and Leo backed away, their hands raised to pacify the enraged witcher.

Lambert was prickling where he stood, teeth bared. “It’s _us,_ dumbass!” he bellowed. “What are you doing?!”

Geralt deepened his sneer and gripped the plank so tight Eskel heard a soft crack in the old wood.

“I don’t think that’s helpin’!” Leo bit back.

“Quiet, both of you,” Vesemir cut in, words flat but hard as stone. The younger witchers went silent.

Tension hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. A single shift meant chaos.

Eskel remained behind the jut in the wall. He had no desire to make a bad situation worse.

Vesemir took a measured step forward. The other man flinched back.

“Geralt, we’re not going to hurt you,” the eldest man soothed, a low voice all of them heard many times during their youth. Late nights when their bones and muscles hummed in sharp agony. When once-occupied beds lay empty, and the weight of it all haunted their nightmares in fiends’ claws and wraiths’ screams.

“We just want to help,” he continued. Another slow step. “You’re safe here.”

Geralt’s pupils widened a mere twitch. His shoulders evened.

No one moved.

The plank fell to Geralt’s hip, his limbs willowy as tension slipped from them. His features softened to the point of muted despair.

“Who are you?” he rasped.

“Friends.”

Quiet. A stumble. The piece of wood clattered against the floor, the sound bouncing throughout the hall. Every muscle within Geralt shuddered, then gave out.

Winded from the adrenaline pounding through his worn body, Geralt slipped downward before Vesemir hooked an arm around him. Leo jumped forward to right the cot, and Geralt was laid back upon it. Within seconds his chest rose and fell in slow, even breaths.

With calm returning to the hollow keep, Eskel dressed and joined the others as they moved to the kitchen and left Geralt to rest.

“Amnesia,” Vesemir said, his voice an exhausted whisper. “No major physical wounds, but he doesn’t seem to recall anything.”

The younger men stood in a semicircle around their mentor, all still rattled by what had just occurred.

“He could be hallucinating because of the fever,” Lambert offered.

“It’s possible,” Vesemir replied. “Once his fever breaks we can confirm or deny that.”

“A doppler?” Leo put in.

“I considered that as well, but if that were the case then the silver on our gloves would have caused a reaction.” Vesemir gestured to his own gloved hands and their shining studs to solidify his statement. “I’ve also never heard of a case of a doppler losing memories while in an adopted form without changing back.”

Eskel recalled the tug of his medallion when Geralt appeared in the forest, but it had ceased as soon as it had awoken. He agreed that the chances of this Geralt being a doppler were minimal.

“When we were coming back he said the same thing,” Eskel said, bringing the conversation back. “He couldn’t remember anything.”

Distant drops hitting stone. Trees creaking in the steady breeze. A far-away flock of crows crying out into the nearing twilight.

“What do we do?” Lambert asked.

Vesemir crossed his arms and stared at the floor, his expression reserved. “Give him time, help him heal. Then we’ll take things as they come.” He was quiet for a beat before looking to Leo. “Any word from Triss?”

The youngest witcher gave a shake of his head. He cupped a small pendant in his palms, something the sorceress had left them years ago for times needing her urgent aid. A deep, strong magic sang inside it.

A rueful breath left Vesemir’s nose. “It won’t be much longer.”

As night fell around Kaer Morhen, an underlying anxiety rattled against its ancient stones.

Vesemir knelt by the hearth and brewed a simple elixir of yarrow and other herbs. Geralt was far too weak for any witcher potions; the toxicity would devastate his haggard system like a wildfire. Something to bring down the fever would be the best first step. Eskel propped up his brother’s head while Vesemir poured the concoction past Geralt’s lips. They also cleaned up the man’s fresh cuts and gashes as best they could.

Unsure of what else to do, Lambert collected some salted hare meat and dried vegetables and tossed them into a pot over the fire. Together they simmered and cooked. A warm, earthy scent filled the keep, the aroma and promise of food easing the witchers’ frazzled minds.

The men ate in silence. They could only focus on Geralt, who trembled and writhed under the furs covering him. Faint mutterings left his pale lips, words too distorted and slurred to comprehend.

The stew left no taste on Eskel’s tongue.

Sated after their meal, Vesemir, Leo, and Lambert made work of propping large hunks of nailed wood against the hall’s ever-open windows. A draft still ebbed its way through the fortress to chill their fingers and toes, but it would keep out the worst of the cool night air.

Eskel moved his belongings to near the hearth, near Geralt. The unconscious witcher’s unintelligible mumbling had ceased. However, a sheen of sweat still coated his forehead, brow creased in distress. Eskel dipped a cloth into a nearby pail of water, then wiped the damp fabric over Geralt’s flushed skin. Once done, he sat on the floor, his back pressed to the hard wooden frame of Geralt’s cot.

The witchers gathered their things to settle for the evening. They hunkered down at scattered places near the warmth of the fire, some on beds while others preferred the floor. Vesemir always complained that the cold, hard stone was too harsh for his old bones. Leo didn’t care either way.

Lambert, on the other hand, would rather spread out as much as possible, his limbs thrown every about like a compass when he slept. When he was young he had a tendency to fall out of his bed because of his unorthodox sleeping positions. The floor was safer.

Eskel returned to his cot and laid among the blankets and furs. Despite sleeping through the late afternoon, he found himself struggling to keep his eyes open. After a final glance at Geralt, the firelight crawling across the spray of white hair, Eskel shut out the world.

Sleep was restless. It slid just beyond his grasp, the cot creaking as he turned back and forth. Dreams flashing, fading. Air thick and dry with the heat of the fire, throat burning with grit.

He awoke to a world still bathed in darkness, his sight cast to the ceiling as he lay on his back.

The rain had ceased pattering on the worn roof. Cobwebs weeped from the crumbling chandeliers in gossamer curtains. A draft washed over his arms and chest, the fabrics once covering him now a tousled mess over his legs and onto the floor.

The night was going to be very slow if this kept up.

Perhaps a walk around the keep, something to get his body moving to make it more open to rest. With a groan, Eskel propped himself up on an elbow, then hesitated.

A form sat hunched on the bed nearest to him.

“Geralt?”

The man tensed. His head turned a degree, an ear aimed in Eskel’s direction.

He hadn’t fled upon waking. Or killed them while they slept. That was a good sign, at least.

Eskel stood with slow movements to not startle the other witcher. He padded to the hearth on silent feet. Upon grabbing a spare bowl and spoon from the stack on the floor, he scooped out what remained in the cauldron. Lazy trails of steam rose from the stew.

Turning back to Geralt, Eskel extended his arm, the food and utensil perched on his palm. “Here, you should eat.”

Stillness. Glaring at the offering with suspicion. After the long pause, a hand drew out from the pile of furs and gripped the wooden bowl and spoon. Pulling them toward his chest, Geralt made a grunt in thanks.

The fizzles and snaps of the fire filled the silence between them. Silence that was making Eskel’s skin itch. Desperate to break the tension humming around them, he gestured toward the cot. “Mind if I-?”

The other witcher’s attention skipped from the bowl in his hands to the canvas beside him. Without a word, Geralt and his blanket cocoon shifted to the right side of the cot. Eskel took the open space, and they sat in an uneasy hush before the hearth.

Since finding Geralt in the pouring rain, Eskel got a good look at his long lost kin.

His hair was stringy and matted with mud and sweat. The fire cast heavy shadows over his hollowed cheeks and tired eyes. He held the furs bundled around himself, tight over his slouched shoulders. Damn, he looked awful.

He was conscious, though. His fever must have broken during the night. It was a step in the right direction.

“Feeling any better?” Eskel asked, his voice too loud to his numbed ears.

Geralt was quiet for a moment. “A bit,” he muttered in his familiar dry baritone. For the first time, he looked up, his eyes meeting Eskel’s.

The realness of everything hit Eskel like a punch to the spine, a burst coursing down every limb. He had not imagined the past day. They all thought he was dead. He _should_ be dead. But he was here, next to him, unnatural golden irises reflecting his own.

“You were the one - the woods,” Geralt said, pulling Eskel back.

Eskel blinked, then looked to the stones under his bare feet to repress the shudder running down his back. “Yeah. We found you out there while hunting, Lambert and I. You were in a pretty bad state.” His eyes flicked back up.

When confusion furrowed Geralt’s brow, Eskel rotated in his seat to point at the bundle against the wall. Geralt followed his hand.

“That’s Lambert. Short hair, shorter temper. You have him to thank for the stew.” Then Eskel thought, fuck it, might as well point out everyone. “The old fart is Vesemir. He makes sure the rest of us don’t end up drunk and bleeding out in a ditch somewhere. Leo’s the newest, but he’s a good kid. Works hard.”

He turned back to Geralt, his palm to his chest. “And I’m Eskel.”

Geralt scanned over the figures before ending at Eskel. He acknowledged him with a nod, a quiet word in thanks for helping him, but no trace of recognition passed over his face.

“You don’t remember anything?”

Geralt froze. He shook his head, gaze locked on the licking hearth. “Just running. And trees. Rain.” He dipped his spoon into the stew and took a tentative sip. “Nothing beyond that.” A small grimace pulled at his lips as if he were fighting to reach further. His low huff proved it was in vain.

Eskel had seen plenty of concussions in his life. Once, after he and Geralt had gone through the Trial of Grasses, a younger boy had been clocked in the head by a startled horse. He was uncoordinated and stumbling the rest of the morning until he passed out in the dust of the training ground. Poor kid couldn’t even recall the year.

The boy recovered only to die of heart failure a few months later during his own Trial.

This was different. Geralt’s eyes were sharp, alert. His movements were sluggish, but it was from obvious exhaustion, not lack of control.

What would cause something like this, something so extreme to wipe one’s mind of everything they had lived through? Well, there was one obvious answer that came to mind.

Magic.

_Great._

And it was no ordinary spell if it had this great of an impact on a witcher. Nothing could ever be easy or simple, not with Geralt.

Eskel could feel his brother’s scrutiny perching on the scar that hewed his face, an unasked question drifting in the silence.

He didn’t know. He really didn’t know.

So many years bound them together, so many shared moments. So many traumas. Early nights when they could both fit in the same bed when they were too afraid to be alone. Later ones when he never left Geralt’s side as he lay ill, sweating, frail. White sprouting from his scalp among damp, disheveled copper. Roughhousing in the yard until their muscles burned, then collapsing onto the grass to watch the clouds drift by. Memories he had worked so hard to tuck away over the past five years to resist the pain.

It all came surging back, but none of it would mean a thing to the man beside him. Something beyond half a decade divided their souls.

He may as well be sitting next to a stranger.

The fire danced.

“You okay?” came that voice again. Still there.

All at once Eskel felt the wet heat slipping down his cheeks and seering his eyes. He raked the sides of his hands over his face to wipe away the evidence. “Just the smoke. ’S hot.”

In the corner of Eskel’s eye, Geralt looked back to the floor. “Yeah.”

His gut twisted in a knot. Selfish. Fucking selfish. His brother is sitting next to him, back from the dead with no recollection of his entire life, and Eskel is brooding about things so insignificant in comparison. He was overjoyed that Geralt was alive, and he needed to focus on that reality. And help him as much as he could.

Eskel took a slow breath to pull his composure back, then turned to Geralt. “Is there anything you want to know?”

Geralt appeared dumbfounded, as if overwhelmed by the question. His gaze flickered around. It settled on the bowl in his hands.

A reflection leered back from the bowl’s murky brown contents among bits of carrot and meat. Amber eyes shining, white hair glowing. While looking down at his image, Geralt’s fingertips traced the scars carved into his flesh. Across his brow, over his nose, down his eye, then resting at a chiseled base cut into his cheek.

He stared back at Eskel, an intensity igniting on his face.

“What are we?”

Shit. Of course he had to ask _that._ Eskel couldn’t fault him, though; it was bound to happen. He sighed, compiling the proper words in his head.

“We’re witchers,” he said, holding Geralt’s stare. “Since we were kids we were trained and molded to hunt monsters.”

A flash darted over Geralt’s features. A light Eskel had not seen there beyond the death of the White Wolf, from a time decades passed when two young boys found a strength to keep living within each other.

Perhaps something lingered below the surface, so deep Geralt couldn’t trace it. A familiarity lingering with worn tethers. There was no way of knowing.

Eskel talked. More than he had in a very long time. Geralt listened, attentive, drinking in each word between spoonfuls of stew. A drop of broth slid down his chin; he either did not care or was too entranced by descriptions of the waning world of monster slayers.

The others had to be awake by now, but none of them made a sound. All was quiet besides Eskel’s own voice, the crackling of the fire, and the whistle of the wind through the pines across the valley.

**Author's Note:**

> in february I bought witcher 3 bc it was on sale and I heard it was good. I went into it completely blind. after only a few hours of playing I had fallen so hard for the characters, and since then I have finished it, read all the books, and played the other 2 games. the first game….. left a lot to be desired imo, especially on the emotional front. this person everyone thought was dead for years just appeared out of nowhere, very alive, and it would have been nice to see stronger reactions from those closest to him. so here’s an expansion on the very beginning of the prologue bc I love those witcher boys.


End file.
